The Shift

Forty miles of interstate and the only sound

is the click of the blinker turning us around.

His hand stays heavy on the plastic knob,

a steady weight that doesn't throb.

He doesn't look over, he doesn't sigh,

just watches the white lines flickering by.

In the gap between the seats, the air is dead,

holding all the things that won't be said.

I watch the dust settle on the dashboard trim,

a gray, quiet layer that reminds me of him.

It doesn't move when the tires hit a rut;

his jaw is a door that’s permanently shut.